The least we could do is keep our spirits up.

Brow knits in consternation. It (surprisingly enough) isn't the first Hector’s been likened to another, and so he can but presume it won't be the last. More importantly:

"You've an oddly familiar bearing yourself."

He can't quite place it, however.But that is neither here nor there.

"So then, Almighty Mystic, share with us your words of counsel, hm? What is a man to do to prove himself worthy of his people's faith?"

Hector may not have heard the entirety of the redhead's confession to the supposed guru, but he's heard enough. He bristles, arms coming to cross over burly chest in a clearcut statement:

the 'guru' had best choose his words wisely.

... And yet, despite Hector himself being curious as to the answer - for, ahem, no particular reason - he cannot help but frown all the more.

This man had to be the younger of the late Lord Hector of Ostia. Was it really so far-fetched that both his father and Lilina’s would attend the same officer’s academy? Time change aside, hadn’t there been other strange considerations as well? Coincidences do not come lightly to those in high places. 

“...just like Lord Hector,” he breathed, still scarcely believing his words. “It’s an honor to meet you again.”

Roy thought about what he asked. There was no easy solution, no trite, concise answer that would satisfy him, he already knew. So why ask? 

“I’m just curious.”

Roy hoped his words were stronger than his delivery. This man was a phantom to him, having passed away over a year ago now. It was not as seeing a ghost, not quite, but he could not help but fill with melancholy at the notion. He could feel his temples growing cold, and he forced himself to straighten up. He looked back at the guru inquisitively.

The guru closed his eyes. He spoke slowly, and his voice rattled lightly, as if his jaw was connected with but small, delicate pieces. 

However, the more he read of this script, the more he recognized its contents. Not only had he read this before, but it had not even been at Garreg Mach! He was surprised to find that this play was from none than a great Etrurian playwright, from the heart of Elibe. He read through it quickly. The story followed Hartmut and the other Eight Legends during their battle in the Scouring. As it was told, the dragon invasion was resolved with the creation of the legendary weapons. Deprived of learning a new story, Roy sighed, and turned to his assigned partner. 

“This scene recounts the forging of legendary weapons. Would you like to play the part of Hartmut, or the blacksmith?”

If it were up to him, Merric would not involve himself in politics.

He does not believe himself to be good at it, nor does he feel comfortable in such situations. He has been told that he has a nice face suited for politics (whatever that means?) and a manner of speaking that endears and draws people to his side. He supposes he'll take that. Means he can at least convincingly force it out.

No matter what, however, it goes without saying that he lacks experience. Of course he has seen, witnessed, and been a part of all sorts of intrigues already at the tender age of five to seven years of age, but that's... a little different. It's useful experience, sure, but he needs the other kind as well. The more normal one. The one where you try to make good and sensible decisions, and the entire kingdom suffers if you fail.

After all - one day, he and Lord Marth will return to Archanea and the continent will look to his friend for help, guidance and salvation from ruin. And Merric is not about to leave him alone to face this.

And so, when an opportunity to bear witness to politics being done in a time of peace arises, the Sage does not squander it. Besides, it has been quite a while since he last visited the Alliance.

The grand hall where the meeting takes place lives up to its reputation and role. Though Merric has seen plenty of enormous and beautiful buildings in his life, he can always appreciate the style and architecture. But of course, here and now, it's only a fleeting thought.

He takes one of the seats prepared for the guests invited to spectate the conference, and while it is still relatively quiet, he turns to the young man that accompanied him on this trip - no doubt, with reasons of his own.

After all, Elibe’s nations were worn thin after the recent war. The political scuffle that had once been between Etruria and Bern was no more; the current delicate instability must be handled carefully, lest any one nation grow too prideful, powerful, or keen.

Since the head of the Lycian League had been removed swiftly at the start of the conflict, there had begun to be unrest between the different marquesses. Though he knew his father and Lilina did their best to uphold the previous head’s virtues, many doubted the efficiency of this system. Succession from the greater country of Lycia was not out of the question for some nobles, even during this time of uncertainty for the continent; and it was not as if Etruria and Bern could involve themselves in foreign affairs at the moment, with enough rebuilding to do of their own. No, anything Roy could do of his own to help secure Lycia’s future was of utmost importance.

This trip out to the Leicester Alliance was a welcome opportunity to observe a different league of smaller noble houses. Roy had visited many of the different marches back home, and knew most of the marquesses’ families by name. (Though, he hadn’t visited them since he came back from Bern.) Despite their differences, the Lycian League was always friendly enough with him though. At least, when Roy had been but a junior lord. So, quietly wondering if this alliance was as amicable, he seated himself, and waited for the conference to begin.

However, it’s not long before company finds him. 

“Actually, this league of noble houses is very similar to my own country.” He turns in his chair, eyes alighting on green hair. “I guess it’s not as common as I had hoped. Everyone keeps telling me that Leicester is unique in its structure.”

...still, this was definitely weird, wasn't it?!

Because Roy was one of those kinds of people who did think things over. He was the sort to pay attention, to make note of little details. The two of them were night and day, and that's why they'd worked well together: Roy's the guy to strategize, Al's the guy to act. It's not a matter of being offended; it just seemed weird that he'd forget him. Roy didn't seem like the kind of person to forget much of anyone.

...huh.

"...Yeah, alright," Surprisingly agreeable, Al leans back in his seat. Because when it comes down to it, he does respect Roy. Not like he's shy about himself anyway, and hey, maybe they'll sniff something out if they work together. Briefly, he thinks about where to begin—there's a lot he could cover. "Lessee... I grew up in a village in the mountains bordering Bern, but I left when it was about time for me to start learning about the world. 'Cuz it was about time for me to become a man, right?"

Al's brow furrows deeply, finger tap-tapping on his forearm as he recalls. How he'd initially set out in search of the Fire Emblem, in pursuit of his own interests accompanying a man and woman who he'd had no real reason to stick around other than lack of reason not to. He'd been convinced that it'd been the right thing to do on sheer intuition.

At no point had he been proven wrong.

Al spoke so comfortably and assuredly with Roy, as if they had been close friends. And Roy would never turn his back on a friend. He looked to be about his age, too. It was easy to see how they might even have been inseparable. Did something happen between them? He fumbled for any possible explanation, but rationale kept slipping between his fingers. Dark magic-induced memory loss…?

“I think I understand your situation,” he started slowly. “And I’m sorry I don’t remember you, truly, I am. If you know me, then you know I am not one to forget a friend so easily.

“Let me start over. We’ve… probably had many shared experiences that brought us close, in the Etrurian Army, but let’s make some new experiences here!” 

Roy grabbed a roll from his plate, and broke it in half. He handed a piece across the table.

“How does that sound? I’m Roy. It’s nice to meet you, Al.”

even knowing what she was getting into, veyle had severely underestimated just how many monsters she would be facing all by herself. with misericorde in one hand she stares the crowd of monsters in front of her down with as menacing a glare as she can manage. they shouldn't have been any different than getting rid of the corrupted.

but then again, even the corrupted could get you surrounded— especially if inexperienced with their behavior. and veyle was inexperienced with these creatures' behaviors. thus, getting overrun within an instant and seemingly with no way out. "ugh!" veyle raises her arms to defend against the monster that dives into her, pushing back and doing what she can to hurt it with misericorde. she wasn't going to last like this.

Though that enemy had gone down without much struggle, Roy knew it had been by virtue of surprise. This wasn’t the first monster on his path here, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last: even as he heaved from exertion, another was lumbering into the pair’s small clearing. 

As Roy runs past her, he quickly assesses his companion’s build. She seems small, but was evidently dealing with the monsters well enough. The dagger clutched in her hand glimmered faintly. Perhaps it too is a legendary weapon? Without a moment to lose, he continues forward, holding off the monster’s approach with his sword. Excited flames ripple up the blade, lighting up faint reds and oranges in the monster’s dark eyes.

They do not mind it altogether much, except when it grows boresome, or tiresome, or most egregiously, distracting. When they are not attending classes, haunting the back of the room, they are researching.

( A way home - but not only that. The world they are in now is an unfamiliar thing, and they do not like not knowing. )

Today, though, they have a task.

It is late - the candle that serves as the sole source of light in their room illuminates it ever-so-weakly, sputtering low. Ink drips onto the page, spattering blotches onto the page they have half-crumpled over and over.

Hello.

I have been assigned your partner in this assignment. I believe it would ruin the point to attempt to inform you of my identity, so I will not do that. However, without revealing identifying information about myself, I do not know much else to say.

I am writing this late at night. I prefer to work at this time. I do not like bright lights, very much. The sun here is very bright.

Are you from here? I'm not.

This person clearly enjoys their darkness and anonymity.

He reads it over just one more time, and settles into his worn desk. The morning sun shines modestly through his room’s lone window, just enough to illuminate his page. He plucks a nice pen, one that has not yet been used, from the shelf above. With so little to go on, Roy waits yet another moment, collecting his thoughts -- but, the words must be realized sooner than later.

Hello, It’s my pleasure to get to know you in this pen-pal assignment. In respecting your wishes of anonymity, I will also not disclose my identity. For all purposes, I am but another nameless soldier right now. Are you too a soldier? This letter was written in the morning. I myself find the night to be a better time for sleeping rather than writing. I suppose I’m too used to waking up early to use my limited nighttime hours for much else. Likewise, I am not of Fodlan. My home country is quite a distance from here; my journey required several different horses. 

Roy stops. How much information is too much? A long pause passes until his pen returns to paper. Perhaps deflecting to their shared circumstance is the answer, he reasons.

As the future Marquess, he can’t exactly afford anyone to know of his weaknesses. After all, he and his father were both called to wars; and according to Merlinus (as well as his own opinion), a leader shouldn’t have any largely known weaknesses. Truly, it was a wonder how his father was able to get around on horseback, for fear of any stray halberd doing him in. Fears, of course, must not be revealed lightly.

But oh, if just for a moment, it would be nice to be entirely sure in himself. To know that his judgment did not hold the flaws he feared, to be as certain in his abilities as his subordinates believed them to be.

He approached the man steadily, continuing to weigh his choice with every step. Regardless of his certainty, darn his boots, he arrived, and the man looked down at him with curious eyes. Not too prying, but curious nonetheless.

“My only fear,” Roy starts, “Is failing to always believe in myself. I’ve been leading an army for the past year and a half, and everyone believes in me wholeheartedly. They’ve followed me, trusted me with their lives, through the whitest snowstorms and the blackest darkness. But, I don’t understand the faith they placed in me, and I’m scared that one day they’ll find that their faith was ultimately misguided.”

The man behind the booth merely observed him. He stood as a statue behind the counter. Roy shuffled his feet nervously.

“Can you help me let go of this fear? Being afraid of one day finding myself having not been good enough?”

Just as he finishes his request, the man instead looks above him. Roy turns on instinct, finding himself staring into the large chest of an equally large man.

But this time. This time. Mitama was determined. Mitama was confident. Mitama was going to find a way to investigate the poetry of far flung lands if it killed her, and if suffering the unpleasantries of inane social interactions was the only way to do so, so be it. She would not fail again here.

The area was filled with competition. Other clubs have set up in the space as well, with enticing booths and multiple members, but Mitama would not be discouraged by something like that. She had her table, she had books. Aside from tea and snacks, what else was there needed to get the club off the ground?

Mitama’s eyes scan the crowd of wandering students to try and spot any who might potentially be interested. She does not see any overly bookish looking students, nor does she see anyone she recognizes. But, she does see a student with red hair wandering by himself, and a lone target is better than none!

“Excuse me!” Mitama waves the student down. “Yes, you, with the red hair. Do you know how to read?”

He grinned. House Pherae was smaller, yes, but it suited him. No such grand parleys needed to happen in those halls back home. He did not miss the enormity of Castle Ostia that much.

A bright pink girl calls out to him, giving him a focal point to follow. Well, bright pink hair -- though, she did possess a very buoyant energy in her question. Through the throng of students, Roy strides towards her.

“Yes, I can read.” He smiles a little. What a strange question to pose in an academy of all places, he muses. Surely, everyone enrolled must be able to read?

 “What kind of group is this?” He maintains steady, level eye contact. 

"You don't remember me?!"

And then, shock and awe! Al has unfortunately never successfully had the importance of maintaining an inside voice drilled into him, and his obvious surprise is broadcast in audio and visual.

"Wait, do I look that different with this get-up on?" He lifts both of his arms, looking himself over as though he might realize he looks completely different than he last remembered. ...he doesn't think he does, but now he's a little upset they coerced him into conforming to dress code. "I was gonna keep the old one you got me, but they said something about dressing for the job and made me change..."

Any offense that he might have taken to Roy—by his definition a friend, though his definition was far broader than most—treating him like a stranger is quickly wiped away when he jumps to thinking of solutions. Roy doesn't recognize him. Alright, that threw him through a loop, but sitting around and whining about it isn't gonna fix that. Well, he's not a braggart or anything, but he's not opposed to talking about his exploits. If all he can do is help jog Roy's memory, then that's what he'll do.

“‘All that with Zephiel’? Wait a moment, were you with us when we stormed Bern Castle…?” Roy rummages through his memory, trying to remember a boy named Al. Such exuberance and excitement should surely stick in his memory, right? Was his mind to blame? 

“But… I don’t remember fighting alongside you at Juteaux. And, the dragon that presided over the capital was dealt with by my army alone, I’m sure of it…”

A passing thought tugs at his recollection. A village bordering the Nabata desert had once gifted him a sword named after its wielder. Hadn’t that sword belonged to a man named Al? Roy furrowed his brow. Such matters needed to be handled with careful judgment. He was almost frustrated with himself, having taken pride in being familiar with near everyone who had helped him in his long campaign.

His plate completely forgotten in his reminiscence, he settled with simply satiating his own curiosity. A polite smile complemented Roy’s disposition far better than the paranoid frown that had come before.

“I’m sorry to have offended you. Though, I do think I remember someone named Al after all. Can you tell me about yourself?”

And, perhaps more to himself than to his dining guest:

It had taken a little while to be certain. Some of the knights around here were friendly enough, but just enough of them struck him as the stick-up-their-ass type that he was pretty sure they were being serious when they'd explained they were in Fódlan. Maybe more importantly, the forests on the outskirts and the creatures that lived in them were definitely not the same as what he saw at home, and those sorts of things did not lie.

Huh. Weird.

...weirder than that, then, is when he wanders into the dining hall after a long day of being lectured. Not that the hot bowl of stew he snags smells completely weird to him—no, that's not it. Not that he evokes strange glances and murmurs from the lunch ladies here when they spot him—rude, but not all that noteworthy either.

No, what's weird is that in spite of where he is, he spots a familiar head of red hair seated across the room.

"Roy!"

Now, someone more mannerly than he might remember that Roy is a person of import. Anyone other than Al might hesitate, or show some restraint, or least of all show a little respect. Al is a boy from a little home in the mountains, a nobody from nowhere, and Roy is marquess-upcoming of Pherae. A little decorum wouldn't be the worst idea.

He's not like that, though. And so with a clatter of dishes upon hard wood, he seats himself in front of his 'friend', immediately tearing into a bun casually and with reckless abandon. Speaking with complete familiarity, as though picking up a conversation left off.

"Man, so you ended up here too, huh? What's up with this place?"

His feet had taken him down the stony pathways towards his next meal. There was never any chance for Roy to overthink himself. He hoped this trait was admirable and not ignorant.

A warm aroma greets Roy at the door. Only then does he realize how hungry he’s become, as his adrenaline ebbs. A large meat pie whets his appetite, and he accepts a plate gladly, bowing his head slightly in thanks. He turns around, looking for a stretch of empty table to recuperate from his exercises. Not that he would be bothered by any company. But he had not quite yet found himself comfortable enough to initiate yet. A meal wasn’t always necessarily the time for socializing, after all. The hall is filled with the lively jabber of students and staff, and Roy finds himself seated alone. Not discontent by this arrangement, but perhaps hoping for a familiar face in the crowd. 

The boy that sits down across from him, however, is a complete stranger. A little surprised with the familiarity with which he is addressed, Roy looks him up and down, just in case his memory is at fault. He finishes chewing a bite, and sets down his fork pointedly. 

Even if this person knew his name, there was no guarantee he was an ally. Roy furrows his brow. He tries to treat it with polite misunderstanding. 

The shining silvery sea, mirrored only by the dazzling blue sky, however, was quite an experience. The strong winds blasting against his face felt refreshing; his bright hair danced in the breeze like fire. The landscape rolled alongside the ship, serving up its landmarks directly to him. And all at once, Roy understood the appeal of being free at sea.

“I’d hate for this scene to be interrupted…”

He trailed off. His eyes disappeared past the horizon, focused on the wind massaging his face. So lost was he in the feeling of the sea air that it wasn’t until the other boat had pulled behind them that Roy was rocked back to reality.

His hand leapt naturally to his sword. Nodding approvingly at his companion's own weighty weapon, he smiled.

He supposed it was time for some exercise, anyway.

It is there that he sees another student. Bright and fiery, Eliwood feels a pang of something that he cannot quite place. Some sort of protective streak washes through him and he makes his way over.

The boy does not appear to be that much younger than this Marquess of Pherae, and perhaps he's even a little lost. He pulls down his scarf and smiles at him, his expression genuine and open.

"You're in the Golden Deer class? Your outfit gives you away," he says. "If you're looking for a room, I can help you."

Grateful, Roy perks up at the voice. But he is shocked to lift his head level to familiar features.

The creases in this man’s face are much less defined, and his hair is far less dreary than he’s used to. In fact, now the pair bear strikingly similar fiery colors, whereas his father’s hair had dullened over the years. The eyes, however, are unforgettable, unmistakable. They seem even more vibrant now, more akin to the cyan warmth preserved in Roy’s memory. Before Roy had left for Ostia, and then the war. And, before his father had fallen ill. 

“Yes, thank you. I am looking for the greenhouse. Would you mind guiding me?”

He pauses, weighing whether to speak his mind or not. But, Roy would rather not let it anything weigh on his mind. Though, it was a curious resemblance, wasn’t it? How strange, to look just like father!

“I’m sorry to be so forward, sir,” he sputters out, “But, are you perhaps from Lycia? My name is Roy, and I am the son of Eliwood, and next marquess of Pherae.” 

The first of Balthus’ suckers proud patrons wants him chasing a bunch of mice.

And while, sure, that’s an okay thing to hire him for, he can’t help thinking that his talents are being a little undersold. The guy could catch a bear, and he isn't exactly quiet about that fact. His body is built for heavy lifting, impactful fights, smash ‘n grabs–but today's foe is barely the size of his fist? 

Well, it’s the kid’s money. The Wolf has long since pocketed it, now that they two are prowling around the town in the dead of night. It makes only the slightest jingle as they turn a corner and darkness envelops them. 

The glitter of stars in the sky can’t reach them here, not with an overcast of two-story buildings blotting out their rays of pale light. But that’s okay. This is exactly where they want to be. Balthus knows rats (has even lived with a few) and understands what they like. The dark and dank, the smelly and humid. Little corners they can huddle around, and all those passageways in Abyss for them to scurry off to, should a threat arise. 

But wedged between these few town buildings, there are scant few paths a rodent could take that Balthus couldn’t smash through. Brick is easier to break than the hard earth–it’s why he wears a confident smirk as he turns to Roy. 

“Alright, pal. Got your listening cap on?” 

He nudges him forward. At the end of this alley is a short wall, and one hop over there is another, and another sprawling in a different direction. As he inches closer, he lowers his stature and heightens his senses. “Remember that we’re here for the music. It was uh, some kind of note, right?” 

He stops tip-toeing. 

“Shoot… Which one was it?” 

Not that he could tell if he heard it, mind you. Balthus’ education in the musical arts ended with his involvement in House Albrecht. While piano or violin may have been expected of a noble, the only sounds he produces now are the cracking of skulls and the tearing of ligaments. He looks embarrassed, waiting for Roy’s response.

That kid was noble enough to foot his bill, so he’s praying he can pick timbre apart from rhythm. 

“Wait, don’t tell me,” he corrects, “just keep an eye out for it. Er, ear out. When you hear it, let me know. I’ll go running in and nab ourselves that bounty. That’s what you’re here for, yeah?”

The hired hand at his side had been a precaution, that’s all. The way the man’s eyes had lit up at the sum he offered reminded him of his father’s old hired hands, that man Dieck’s mercenaries, that had helped him on his journey. Dieck had been a comforting presence as the campaign had strolled ever onward, after all. He had come to know a more reasonable man than one who was as battle hungry as his scars suggested, or as greedy as those of his profession could be. This student was no Dieck (that’s for sure), but he at least had a similar physique; and for that comfort, Roy found that spending some of House Pherae’s coin was worth it.

Now as for the matter of his query in question. As the unlikely pair made their way along the dormitory building, Roy reviewed the facts of the case: a music note was played really loud, and then a student disappeared. Roy was no music expert (especially with his Ostian education being cut short), but he knew what a C# note meant, vaguely. After all, his parents had required violin prowess as part of his upbringing, in order to entertain guests. He hadn’t disliked playing it, but well, he didn’t exactly regret being unable to progress further. Roy was amicable and sociable, but he wouldn’t pretend that such events were his specialty. His reminiscence was cut short by Balthus’s directions.

“Alright, I’ll be ready. We’re waiting for a C# note.” He paused, looking for any sign of incomprehension in his companion’s face, ready to clarify.

Bracing himself for a long wait, he lowered himself against the wall of the alley. The sounds of the night leaned in around them, whispering winds speaking right over his head. Despite the assignment, Roy’s eyes remained alert, staring ahead as best he could.